Nkrumah's remedy

Long before they dug up presidential bones
and placed them in a mausoleum.

A young Kwame Nkrumah was guest of James fort prison.

Eleven proud men shared the same bucket
equally defensive of their distinction.

Quick to make clear,
"our incarceration is political"

The path to greatness is littered with sacrifice
and so they endured the morning feed:

One cup of maize porridge, 
no sugar. 
Watered soup on Sundays,
and skin degraded daily.

In his story, Kwame wrote,

"the nut kernel was generally used by the prisoners to oil their bodies.. 

..on the account of their rotten diet and the poor quality of soap, the skin became scaled and cracked"

Making light work of the ritual 
he would split the kernel 
between strong teeth
precious oil was released

Spit, smear, repeat
great, small relief.
Spit, smear, repeat
until each crack was eased.

The years brought destiny;
oily kernels withered in memory.
The former prisoner wore linen;
his rise is legendary.

Predictably, 
soft nature grows hard;
morals bend
under weight of great power.

Nkrumah now tyrant,
voracious, cold heart.
Sniffing and stamping
descent stood no chance.
Scores of young men imprisoned, 
no trial.

My father's cousin,
guest of James Fort prison.
No kernels to extract oil,
No ointment to ease his suffering.

He remembers the tears when he paid him a visit; Nkrumah forever a villain.

I know why they scratch

Just one,
of many

of the small
cruel tricks.

One from the mix that life inflicts

Is the never ending itch that afflicts hexed skin
bane from birth
wicked as a scorned bitch.

the beginning is small
     a subtle nag
triggered by the thing you ate
     the trans fat thickens your saliva
coating the inside of your mouth like wretched feathers
     (baptised when crude oil spills)

devilish treats cause mischief
     but impossible to resist is junk
scoffed without presence of mind to consider
     Irony that a doughnut has caused the tingle
rising in urgency

you try to ignore, but the effort in vain
     the will is weak
itch must be obeyed

     it builds upon itself
until it cannot be endured,

weak, you relent.

     Raking the surface
slave to the itching,
     possessed
you scratch to quell the irretation
     calm is realeased
the briefest of breezes
     a taste of peace
the cruelest of teases

gone in a flash
     joy is a blip
comes next is not cool
     burns hot
lit wick.

conclusion is written in code
     etched on lines
a pronounced ebb
     that promises scabs

again, and again..

Just one
Of many

Of the small
cruel tricks

one from the mix that life inflicts.

Bloodhound

Did he see at that moment

how he resembled the vulture?

Surely it occurred he might look the lesser creature?

Back, forth , forth, back; how many times?

Did it cross his mind?

Was he blind to the crime?

He reminisced, 

the rush when he beheld his gift;

the smell of good grief,

the lens flashed sharp teeth.

The child was a feast;

the prize within reach.

A leach can only leach;

each play their part.

He gulped, 

and passed the cup back to the reaper.

He was cut from the cloth of the dealers;
doomed to get high 

on his own supply;
overdose on pity,

fall into his abyss.

Snap

He beat his chest,

"Mine was no easy pursuit.

Who dares judge me? 

who dares wear these boots?"

Guilt may be folded - compartmentalised.

But demons don't die,

they grow fat in the dark.

The bloody lens:

*drip*
*snap*

The child was a feast:

*drip*
*snap*

Bait for the trap; catalyst for the fall.
After grabbing slippery pictures,

1 glance, 2 glance , 3 glance, 4..

how many more, 

as he left her?

Who can survive the perfect storm

when it pours acclaim?

His belly full of rotten fruit,

it burst from the disdain.

They always applaud,

before pouring scorn.

Most still pepper him with stones.

Who mourns for the child?

the life and times of kevin carter

Who would dare...

Who would criticise Mandela...

Who has lost their small mind... to even think is thought crime;

criticism is for mortals; not the idol of madiba atop its pedestal.

Who would throw stones...

only the uncouth;
the imperfections of a giant not ours to peruse.

But you may imagine him patient,
soul on ice.
The years melting the prime of an unlived life.
He dreams
the death of apartheid,

while enduring hard time with equanimity.

Who belittles sacrifice..

Who dares query,
the crown of his achievement was fruit from a quandary...

True,
he did not orchestrate
his cage was ordained.
Such is fate,
but consider the feat:
to return home,
yet not return hate.

Truly a miracle,
the scoundrel emerged a global symbol.
Compassion in the flesh,
branded a deity.

Gold plated hearts are readily idolised.

Time again, speech is made divine on paper.

Surely his words are fit for scripture.

Mandela-ism;
may generations emulate him,
right down to his funky shirts.

Dare they whisper criticism...

measure pretence of virtue,
defending his name.

Thinking inside the iron box

For the faithful, the vantage point of the documentary 'Islam: The Untold Story' is inconceivable.

For the faithful, the portrayal of Muslims in the sitcom 'Citizen Khan' is disrespectful.

For the faithful, the disrespect shown by the makers of 'the innocence of Muslims' is intolerable.

The blasphemy card may be raised by those of us content to voice opinion calmly as well as men inclined to shout. Although the expression may be different, the card remains the same- there are things that a person of faith simply cannot abide.      

The three examples I have given are recent symptoms of a situation that is old news. Inside and outside the faith it is known that there are sections of Muslims who routinely take deep offence. Their discontent is no secret, from peaceful protest to the burning of flags, their sensitivity is made clear.

The events I write about are a little older than the recent wave of troubles. I pondered them at the time they occurred but when the dust settled, so too did my thoughts. The latest hysteria spurned me to revisit my opinion, now crystallised in this blog.

Submission

Theo Van Gogh had directed a short film based around the experience of a downtrodden women within a Muslim country. He had collaborated with writer Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a former Muslim who has seemingly made it her life's work to denigrate Islam.

Ostensibly titled Submission, the film is wilfully provocative as it stamps through territory few dare to trespass. As the drama unfolded, my eyebrows raised and did not relax until I stopped watching.

Submission is a strange mix of activism and clumsy propaganda. I was moved by the portrayal of domestic abuse, but not impressed with the way that passages from the Quran were super imposed over half naked bodies. It places Islam soley in a negative light, inferring a direct link between the subjugation of women and passages from the Quran.

The message of the film maybe one sided and bullishly inappropriate, yet it cannot be denied that there exists institutional sexism in countries such as Saudi Arabia. Women have basic freedoms stifled there, including the right to vote and drive. Whether the constraints in Saudi Arabia are Islamic depends on which interpretation of Islam you ascribe to. And therein lies the problem, my Islam may reflect my liberal values as easily as it can interpreted to support the perspective of the extremely conservative.

Not long after the film’s release Theo was cycling to work when he was confronted and shot eight times by Mohammed Bouyeri. The scene descended into a horror scene as Bouyeri is said to have unsuccessfully tried to decapitate Theo whilst he bled to death. 

The killing was carried out as both punishment and warning to those who would insult Islam. 

Who knows whether Theo's murderer saw submission or merely heard of it’s disrespect. All I can do is gauge the furious reaction of a man whose religious zeal is reflected in the poem discovered upon his arrest. Grandiose and forthright, the poem is a window into his interpretation of a faith that consumed him to the point of tragedy.

baptised in blood 

So this is my final word… Riddled with bullets… Baptised in blood… As I had hoped. I am leaving a message… For you…the fighter… The tree of Tawheed is waiting… Yearning for your blood… Enter the bargain… And Allah opens the way… He gives you the Garden… Instead of the earthly rubble. To the enemy I have something to say… You will surely die… Wherever in the world you go… Death is waiting for you… Chased by the knights of DEATH… Who paint the streets red. For the hypocrites I have one final word… Wish DEATH or hold your tongue and …sit. Dear brothers and sisters, my end is nigh… But this certainly does not end the story.

Religion and intolerance are the deadly combination prone to fuse and explode with tragic consequences. Men such as Mohammed Bouyeri are the twisted minority amongst Muslims, but his interpretation of Islam is based on the same Koran that all Muslim's read. Many will argue that it is the conditions, social and political that give rise to the opposing manifestations of a religion. I believe this is true, but then it implies a counterpoint truth that some may find uncomfortable. Islam is wide open to diverging interpretations- like water it easily fills different shaped containers. 

It is the actions of the unhinged few who capture the media’s attention time and time again. And It is largely because of them that Islam is tarnished with a reputation that is perceived to be aggressively intolerant to criticism. Accordingly the cherished western ideal of 'free speech' has an uneasy relationship with Islam.

Earlier this year I attended a discussion about this very topic. 'DV8; can we talk about this?', was a platform to discuss issues raised in the National Theatre Production of the same name.

The conversation centred around the issue of freedom of speech and its documented stormy relationship with Islam. It was a heated debate at times due to the opposing views held with conviction. The question simply put, does Islam deserve its reputation for hypersensitivity to criticism?

In the Muslim corner was Inayat Bunglawala, media secretary for the Muslim council of Britain. His opponent for the evening was ex-Muslim and civil rights campaigner, Maryam Namzie.

Maryam is notorious for her outspoken opinions on Islam and this event was the perfect platform for her to vent. The focus was supposed to be on the issue of freedom of speech but she very quickly sidestepped into more general criticisms. She spoke of the inherent unfairness of shariah law in the rights it affords women. The example she gave was that sharia courts do not recognise the testimony of a female as being equal to that of a male. She then followed with an attack on the government for allowing sharia courts to make judgements in civil disputes. To her mind, western values reflected in English law are not perfect, however it is a more ethical system than it's Islamic counterpart. 

Her views are not surprisingly unpopular amongst Muslims but here Maryam draws a distinction between her criticism of Islamic doctrines opposed to an attack on Muslims as people. She spoke of her family as moderate, law abiding Muslims who typify the majority of Muslims in the UK. However she also identifies a sinister section of Muslims she calls 'Islamists'. 

Islamism was a label I first heard used by former Muslim radical turned author Ed Hussain. An Islamist is politically driven and puritanical in their interpretation of Islam. They strive towards a global Islamic state and are intolerant of anything outside of their world view. When Inayat challenged Maryam on her use of the term, she became defensive, appearing paranoid in her proclamations about the Islamist threat. Inayat rightly inferred that the term was being used to denigrate and laughed when she responded to his goading, accusing him of being an Islamist.

Within Islamic communities, those who fit the description of the 'Islamist' described by Maryam do exist. And in the context of political ideology, 'islamism', epitomised by Taliban rule in Afghanistan might easily be called fascism. Unfortunately the term 'Islamist' does not register with most people, Muslim or otherwise. It has its use in discussions where categories are invented and labels placed on people. But in reality the terms 'muslim' and 'Islam' are already synonymous without further thought for the distinction of an 'Islamist' or 'islamism'. In my experience,  rather than highlighting the perceived bad apples, the term currently serves a greater consequence of alienating moderate Muslims. 

Free Speech

As the discussion progressed, Inayat made it clear that he did not believe that Islam had an problem with free speech. This was a predictable stance considering his role in the ideological battle. But to me it was a deceitful claim I could not co-sign. Perhaps it was wishful thinking or maybe Inayat meant free speech within the boundaries of dogma. To my mind it has always been the case that there are topics within Islam that are absolute no go areas. I am Muslim, raised by Muslim parents, come of age amongst Muslim friends. Far from freedom of speech, there is zero tolerance for any question over the integrity of the Quran or prophet Muhamed. The long established doctrines of the faith require an absolute acceptance of the Quran as the preserved word of Allah, revealed to the final messenger, prophet Mohammed. 

Prophet Mohammed is held up as an ideal, the best of creation, beyond criticism. The boundaries are made clear for all to see and the faithful do not hesitate to defend his name when they are encroached.

Raised with this understanding, absolute acceptance of doctrine is part of your identity. Accordingly it is only natural to perceive dialogue that goes against this as a personal attack. A personal attack may illicit an emotional response, and some people are more emotional than others.

Twitter Blasphemy

This year Saudi Arabian resident Hamza Kasgari tweeted about prophet Mohamed amongst other things,

"On your birthday I find you in front of me wherever I go, I love many things about you and hate others, and there are many things about you I don't understand."

"On your birthday I won't bow in front of you, I won't kiss your hand. Instead, I will shake it as an equal, I will smile at you and you will smile back and I will talk to you as a friend, no more."

"All the great gods that we worship, all the great fears that we dread, all the desires that we wait for impatiently are but figments of our imagination."

"No Saudi women will go to hell, because it's impossible to go there twice."

Clerics and sections of society alike were deeply aggrieved, their discontent culminated in a sizeable facebook group calling for his death. He fled for his life but was extradited back to Saudi Arabia where he remains incarcerated on a charge of blasphemy. Although I do not agree with this hysterical reaction, Hamza should not be surprised. If you are born and raised within Islamic culture you will instinctively know of the no go areas. If we also consider the fact that Hamza Kashgari lived in Saudi Arabia, the geographical and spiritual home of Islam, the response is not surprising at all. 

But what if Hamza did know better? There are two factors that I considered as parts of he's motivation. The first is youthful exuberance in pursuit of attention. The human condition craves it and some will do the reckless to achieve it. The second is activism, Hamza Kashgari may be more calculating than perhaps he is given credit. Unreserved courage may have got the better of him in the footsteps of dissenters such as Rosa Parks. Rosa in an iconic moment, galvanised the civil rights movement when she refused to adhere to oppression. Rules dictated that she must give up her seat on the bus for a person of white skin. Rosa made a conscious decision to dissent, knowing full well she would face the wrath of society. Yet she still did it and in doing so she made a difference.

Freedom of speech is an extension of freedom of thought. If I am honest, Islamic sensibilities and the notion of free thinking will always clash where the dialogue serves to undermine long established doctrine held dear. A man may marry outside of the faith and have up to four wives, a woman may do neither. Positions such as this have been clarified and cemented centuries ago by scholars. To question the fairness of such a principle is to skate on thin ice. There exists an intolerance that has its foundation in doctrine that explicitly forbids you to question authority. Reinterpretation of the Quran to support new approaches to old ideas is expressly forbidden. Such 'innovation' is considered heretical due to an 11th century Fatwa that declared the gates of interpretation closed, indefinitely.  We now find ourselves in the position where Muslims in the 21st century are bound by the interpretation of scholars whose could not see beyond the century in which they existed. The irony of this inflexibility is that we still have a multitude of sects within the body of Muslims, each side sincerely declaring that the other side is misguided due to their diverging interpretation and practice. 

The issue of free speech and Islam is as much a problem within the faith as it is an external issue. Indeed the voracity of the response to external criticism is underpinned by the fierce restraint on internal dialogue.

A bizarre situation occurred last year, the Guardian newspaper reported..

Dr Usama Hasan, vice-chairman at Leyton mosque and a senior lecturerin engineering at Middlesex University, ceased delivering Friday prayers after 25 years of service when 50 Muslim protesters disrupted his lecture by handing out leaflets against him and shouting in the mosque for his execution.

It seems his transgression was to suggest that Darwin's theory of evolution may be compatible with Islam. Most Muslim's I know would condemn the frenzied response reported in the article. But I also believe that many would passively agree with the principle. To align Islam with a scientific theory that shows that humans share a common ancestor with apes may be a bit too much free thinking for some to stomach.

Although we may read from the same page, clearly not everyone is on the same wave. 

Black grandma & White grandma

Spectacles and wrinkles; 
grandma brown as good soil.
While my mum's skin is more akin to yellowish pear.

My daughter’s not so flowery, she tells it how she sees:
black grandma and white grandma she calls accordingly.

Simple how she thinks,
my kid reductionist,
speaks to my delight,
cutting to the heart of things.

I hope she won't forget
the feeling: young and free
silently erodes with age and shrinks in memory.

We are drawn to their innocence;
oblivious to deference, they dance unencumbered, 

abuzz with energy.

With little care she follows bliss equipped with crafty grin;
between her thumb and finger she will twirl a rascal's pin.

With the sincerity's simplicity
a question is posed;
pop goes the bubble of a gassed ego.

The wisdom of a whipper snapper
may crack the shell of pretense - a shame they lose their edge.

Her lense has lost sharpness, 

correctness drilled in.
As she passes through the system, spirit dimmers by the second.

Youth is wasted on the young,
elders envy dismayed.
Abundant opportunity is blown and thrown away.

Let her live in the moment
as long as life permits. 
Everyday the timer ticks,
her temperament cools.

One day I'll lift her up,
no doubt with absent mind; how will I know when it will be the last time...

A sage spoke of three types,
the rest are disingenuous; romantic, religious and then love for a child.

Careful you love too much;
love's beholden to the past.
They grow so damn fast...

heart aches when she is gone.

love vs hate

     I used to feel less muslim than my counterparts

In my head, a twisted ideal had been erected
A narrative grand as the pyramids
     "proper muslim"
I deferred to it

In New York, the proud towers were reduced to bloody rubble
my complex was reinforced
the bar of faith raised higher
on the underdog's day.
         
My measly faith could not compare with men prepared
to die.

     They had force fed the west
a rancid taste of its own medicine,
    

'Martyrs', they said
not a crack in their conviction
     audacious
 forthright
     they gave the ultimate sacrifice

Bullshit.
     My other hand gripped shame.
These were murderers and their mockery of virtue.

I wore two faces:
    
appalled around most,

but among those of same twisted disposition,
nods of approval.
    
     Religions are ideologies
pick and mix affairs.
     You may outgrow and shed the ugly parts,
   
deference to disdain,
     the palatable remains I can fit in one hand.

The walking dead

the slither of escape taunts a queen in a cage
     spirit lies chained
her nature is numb
    
     the world through bars
her daily domain
     despair is a maze
It has swallowed her rage
     
     night falls..
she dreams hot pursuit
     of gazelle
no match for her pace
     usain can relate.

She opens ashy eyes
     resigned to fate
too beat to pray
     no choice but wait

     suffering mute
no more stomach in her fight
     eye's fire followed suit
deftly left in the night.

     soul knows no peace
but the smallest relief
     each day
fed meat
     cold slabs
bought cheap
     she is watched while she eats
we civilised love a beast
     could it be we recognise our savage beneath

thrilled kids giggled bounced pebbles of her head
     heart beats in vain for the walking dead.

Life jacket

The need for solid ground
      is the human condition.

A lost one switched sides
     found peace in religion

Though my story backtracks my heart barely beats different.

Just an unshackled mind - a small revolution.

I look back through a cracked lens
 
and see an old love affair.

She, my life jacket once filled with air.

     Now punctured, deflated
there are many replacements
     I must gracefully decline.
I swim ragged as ever.

At sea with a fresh introspection -
     dogma is dead;
I take a whiff of the freedom,
     and catch pride swell -
My gassed up faculty of reason,
     whispers that it was my achievement.

Shame,
     the epiphany not mine to claim.

I arrived at this place by tides of change.
Circumstances
                       surely
                                paved
                                          the
                                                way.

Long I was yoked on my travels,
     how did it all unravel?

No thunderbolt struck;
     eye did not blink unstuck.

The stories simply fell apart,
     piece by piece.
Underneath, naked premise lay exposed;
     over a seasons discontent,
fear and guilt
     dissolved slow.
As mighty erosion,
     realisation in motion
niggling doubt
     seeds sprout
from ploughed lines of enquiry.

Nose poked in places
     eyes took hard looks
saw
     contradiction
                        indefensible
                                         embarrassing
                                                       
"truths"

Now baggage discarded,
     questioned myself,
questioned others.
     'Allah knows best'
I am told,
     but no plugs for these holes

in grand narratives and arbitrary rules.
     Hard wired
blind devotion
     is to walk in emperors clothing.

Allah knows best
     once calmed my thinking,
till my truth outgrew its prison.
     Mine is not concrete or monstrous
beyond taboo
     I freely ponder.

Mine is but an aphids size
     voracious in its appetite

My truth remains unsure
       head held high.

The mystery of the ticket inspector

A ticket inspector has the hump.
A big bandage covers up his nose.

Could it be there's nothing underneath?

Was it sliced when the train doors closed.

Maybe he sneezed ex plo sive ly

Nose off like a rocket
followed by snot.
Set for the stars, it climbed and climbed
bisected a cloud at its peak then dropped.

Or was his ear yanked carelessly.
Like a chain it caused a flushing
his nose sunk scuppered.

Each year he mourned the loss on the day it disappeared
Tears rolled down his cheek
a grudge was held against ear.

He may have even tripped as he ran down the stairs
fell flat on his face

Pride crushed like grapes

Tragic comedy,
 or comic tragedy?
A surgeon offered two options,

said choose wisely..

We can rebuild it.. or amputate! 


How about

every single smell reminded him of her
depressed he decided he would smell no more

He had his nose appraised
placed a pitch on the web
alongside some shots 
here's what he said:

Vintage sniffer
Can smell lies and deciet 
One careful owner 

who no longer has the need

It didn't take long, you see demand was strong

Sold and delivered to the highest of the bidders.

Perhaps he was born with a cursed one
Each year he would feel another stich come undone
     

Till nose hung like a door insecure on it's hinges

destined to drop, plop

it sleeps with the fishes.

Deep grooves in his brow
under his breath he mutters..
Why me?
Only he knows how he suffers.

soul food

audio


I declare I am an island
    
I will live on bread alone

no time will be spent
     with friends breaking bread

Just me
     myself
          and bread rolls

Was content in my own company
     stewed in my own soul

Till I became too comfortable
     and contempt grew strong
Ingrown.
    
     Your misery surely needs company
Said a voice wise in its hunger
     There are forces unseen that change our direction
In time a path is shown
    
     Forces unseen
nudge creatures to coalesce

     saint meets sufferer
a starved heart draws it's lover
     soft minds for the teacher
old friends come together

So there was I
     jammed in a cold hole
unexpectedly
     time reminded me
delivered food for my soul:
     familiar company
how did I forget the warmth
     grub amongst friends is so much more

For the occassion
     a toast to the newlys
Clink
     we laughed over stories

I chewed fish
     a fresh feast
the sun shone
     my heart beat

No longer surviving
     living not lacking
The laughter of old friends
     The joy of overcoming

The peace of understanding

3

Natural born killer pt. 1

You know me well
     my name my rep
Angel death follows my step
     my presence has a strange effect
Great and small all hold their breath

     My heart is stone
eyes and skin
     Immaculate black
I am old as sin
     my armour gleams
encased within
     Cold flesh cold blood cold soul

I walk the line of malevolent kings

     beware my path

Grotesque my sting

     I have punctured, pierced

fools have bled

     look close

see stains of faded red

long

     time..

I have resigned

     to the quirks of my design

madness surely drives my mind

     a passenger I am

Am I..

     Cursed to kill

god's will dictates

     murderous impulse

guides my fate

     A scowling corpse left in my wake

this part I play

     is how god made

I cannot dissent

     I am.

'the behaviour of some creatures is irrepressible, no matter how they are treated and no matter what the consequences'

three poles

When I am happy

The world is in motion
Stars align
I have all the time
small cogs grind
in grand design
We turn..

But, When I am grim

The whole world is my enemy
Me against it all
even wasps plot to get me

Baited traps around me
Clouds are out to wet me
A season of despair
For the fool and his conspiracy-
Sods law dictates

When I am manic-

Time is my tyrant
Running through my fingers
I must accelerate

Surrounded by meaning
I pause to pick the locks
observations beckon
Yelling me
connect the dots

The pace of thought wears down my mind
I pay the price in ache
A frame of mind to taste
but to dwell is wretched fate

listen

No ghost in the machine

Audio
No ghost in the machine

I was told an aneurism is what caused his demise
     that day I had a friend that died

face limp
     boiled veg
chest moved precise in it's rhythm
     a charade as machine held life on a string
truth be told to the lie
     under the façade
only clockwork animated his skin

A doctor goes through the motions
     steers this latest tragedy
softly kills the family
     with rehearsed lines

many times this song has played
     remixed plight
prognosis versus prayer he has watched these fights
     mismatches endured through weary eyes
he does not feel
     countless scenes
now desensitized

Using a fingers tip
     he presses the switch
a click coincides with the blink of an eye
     chest expands
then falls for it's last time
     hearts crack
tears well
     fade to black

my memory has turned deeds to gold
     dust has settled and obscured him
and so I wonder..

I'm told all is written
     played from script
so this fate was sealed before first breath
     divine design?
life plucked at it's prime
     such things foretold
this learned truth no longer consoles

dogma

children are a blessing
said the heart lonesome
magnetised
it yearnt something
to reciprocate love

a seed lies dormant
long buried deep
beneath layers of pain
It dreams

as it sleeps

sorrow births joy
a void's always filled
A girl meets boy
dressed in sheep's wool

a child arrives glistening
Mum is wired for nurturing
the impulse kicks in
she will tend to needs

cradling
soothing
guided by a sixth sense
She pats

rejoices burps

sweet innocent redolence

children are a blessing

for a power hungry mother
her dream was derailed

by the wooly liar

He left jagged pieces

broken promises

So she steps cross the line

and embraces her scorn 

pain is repaid

with hurt

he gave
let him know how it feels

He pines for his child.

children are a blessing 

This is wishfully true

when mother is scorned
blessing mixed with curse
too

Ebb and flow

Something in my cave

plays a vital part.

These pieces of a man

on base 

layed as a child. 

Mind's a tool that can enslave;

habitual habits chains.

Gut 

feels the keys to all that's right, 

same keys for what is broken.

Scattered 'round the cave,

remains of dead endeavours.
Seeds of hope; dormant dreams;
nebulous plans and mangled schemes.

Ghosts

of the shadow

as deep as my marrow.

Tightly pulling strings in the present state of things.

The teased and the tease,
whose cheek the teacher would squeeze.
A seeker duly learns

kowledge is its own reward.

To doubts what was
lets you renew what is.
I remember dreams a ghost dreamt;

did this child really exist..

Worlds apart, we are close as kin.

The ebb comes and goes,

soul afloat in the flow.

While my Mood sharply swings

Death and the dream
Seems I still fleet in between
Up and down this stream I float
I breath between extremes

location
a: a wretched place
b: would be euphoric rush
chronic journeys back and forth
dust in wind that cannot set
I visit each but cannot stay
conceited thoughts whisper..

Am I
the chef of my portion
or a shell of channeled forces
A player with such power
or at the mercy of my cards

I am
Innocence distorted
The sum of much endured
The receiver of much blessings squandered of my own accord

And so I tell myself must take the rough with a smile
with caution accept the smooth
because taste can deceive
the situation cloaked sweet
turned peak in a flash
quick as a blink
sugar to shit.

But embedded in that heap
concealed seeds
from the shit hope grows
tomorrows sweet rose

Hell and back pt 1

man raises his goblet

savors the moment

a pause for a whiff

then proceeds without caution

an angel appointed heard pants between sips

unmoved by the greed

man smacks his cracked lips

angel eyes the concoction

henny the choice poison

a drink to drown sorrow

or bring truth to the open

man gulps

leant back

he falls

descends

he floats

his watch- 

hands froze

It begins..

surroundings transform

walls vaporise

he begins to freefall

feels temperature rise

the pace; blinding

tears to his eyes

as panic takes hold

with the grip of a vice

Snapshots of buried memories..

as he falls they rise

marbles on concrete

A moment in time

lost ones

loved ones

the promises made,

debts yet paid

time spent wasted away

for a grudge: a regret

the pride once held dear

now feels like rope

round his throat

choked.

Chest heaves

breath squeezed by the agony's terror

The angel observes calm not lifting a feather..

my greatest enemy

stuck.
unsure
I tread
endure
another long day
clinging to this faith
that everything must change
nothing stays the same
but my heart sits still
a clod of wet clay

'pick your self up'
breath in
exhale
lift..
but strength folds
fail.
hard to hustle dead weight
he who holds me down
I know him well
lips bound in a frown
so I dip
introspect
reflect on my reflection
'he is I I am him'
my enemy
within

books> film?

Does a story pack more punch when told on the silver screen?

A copy of the help was given to me by my sister- it looked interesting enough, but I put it amongst the heap of books collecting dust at the back of my mind.
My exposure to the help might have ended there, but fate had other ideas. The stars conspired with my old lady and somehow- someway I found myself sitting down watching the film adaption.

By the end of it I sat  humbled pie, by the type of sentimentality I foolishly thought beneath me. Granted,  I was told that 'the help' would make me cry (first in a tweet courtesy of @unclerush and then later in a shrewd prophecy from my old lady). On both occasions, I dismissed the nonsense and so I went into this movie with my usual cynicism.

How was it then that I found myself wiping a tear (or two) over the lives of the imaginery characters of "the Help"?

I have never had the desire to read a book once I have seen the movie. It has never seemed worth the effort until now.

Playing my own advocate, I propose it's not so different from watching a football game even though you already know the result. Chaps still take the time to sit through match of the day because of the the qualitive experiance of watching the play. The silk skills, the drama when two players square off make up the little details that the quatitive result alone, cannot convey.

It's the little things that amount to the experience that bring a result to life- for most of us the "experiance" is all we care for.


Back to the "the Help"; my initial sceptism towards it was based on it's sweet smell of  "chick lit". Also, a cursary glance left me with the impression of a knock off "Colour purple"- this was an insult to the classic surely?

I knew from reading the summary that it was set in deep south America at a time when  racial segregation was legislated through the Jim crow laws. Blacks languished at the bottom of the social hierarchy, typically stuck in menial jobs. I wont give too much away but one of the many narratives follows the story of a white journalist raised by her family's black housemaid.

After studying away from home she returns to her small town with an open mind that has outgrown the prejudices of  friends and family. By fate a working arrangement turns into friendships and then into an activism that challenges the entrenched racism of her piers.

Like all great art 'the help' is a representation of life that evokes laughter and tears- shame and pride. It's an inspiring story where the ugliness of social iniquity is humbled by the might of a gracious pen.

I cannot recommend this movie enough- it's a bold statement but I think its a movie that everyone can take something from.

Onto the title of this blog- books or films, which is best?

Its an unfair question in a way because it's impossible to objectively take in a story, after it has already been conveyed in a different medium. Depending on which one you consume first, your perspective on the latter is distorted by the yardstick created by the first exposure.

I have experienced this in a few of the books that I have read where there is a corresponding movie. 'The Sicilian' by Mario Puzo was a book I loved when I was younger. It had the Mafia life I first came across in the godfather where characters were described so intimately you felt you personaly knew them.

By the end of the book it was real anger I felt at the betrayal and real sadness I felt for the tragedy. However that level of emotional attachment was not there when I watched the movie- the actors on screen did not measure up to pictures I had painted in my head.

Another example I read recently is an intense spy novel  called 'The little drummer girl' (John le Carre). Set to the backdrop of the struggle between Palestinian terrorists/ freedom fighters (depending on which side of the fence you are on) and Israel's secret service, it gives the reader a meticulous insight into both sides of the conflict. Another exceptional book that didn't translate well when turned into a film due to a massive loss of detail, and the whole tone of story being changed by the watering down.

On the other hand 'There will be blood' and 'The departed' are two of my favourite movies of all time. The first thing that springs to mind when I think about what made them great for me was the quality of the acting. I expect that they are also fine books but would the films have struck a cord so strongly had I read them as books- I expect so but I cannot honestly say.

Books are dear to me, they usually leave a deeper footprint than the films I have seen but a part of me also believes that a great film satisfies in ways that only a film can.

The mediums of expression are many: I have read graphic novels that have moved me (V is for Vendetta, Watchmen), I have watched emotional cartoons ( Disney's 'Up', 'Full Metal Alchemist') and I have sat through inspiring documentaries (HBO's Koran by heart, Bobby Fischer against the world). There is a tendency to put books on a pedestal, above all other forms of information. The truth is that style and content does not discriminate when it manifests in great art.

I am simply satisfied any time I have the fortune to come across good art that carries a good message.

doubting brian

doubt never sounded so soulful